


It's 7th Grade Stuff

by nextraordinaire



Series: Something Blue [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Established Relationship, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1939203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nextraordinaire/pseuds/nextraordinaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The music from the scratchy radio is interrupted by a commercial and Charles slips a tendril of his awareness into Erik’s mind, browsing through the newspaper on the table. As the rain patters against the window, he lets the feeling of home, warmth and comfort lull him into a sense of calm </p><p>They do say third time’s a charm, after all."</p><p>or, in which Charles tries to propose, but forgets one crucial detail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's 7th Grade Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> Something I came up with while experimenting with styles; parentheses are my latest love. First part in a series.

When Charles steps into Erik’s apartment that night, shivering from both the cold and nerves, he’s greeted by the sound of running water and clattering pans. Muffled tones from a radio struggle around the walls, but the smell of cooking food goes through them easily enough, making Charles’ empty stomach growl. There hadn't been time to get any lunch today, apart from a sandwich from the cafeteria on campus – he’d sent Erik a message saying as much.

Slipping out of his coat, still wet from the rainstorm outside, Charles pats his pocket to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything, before he heads out in the kitchen.

By the sink, freckled forearms covered in suds from the dishwater, Erik is finishing up the last pans from what according to the smell must be a dinner worthy of gods. His usual suit has been replaced by a pair of worn jeans and a t-shirt (the AC/DC one he’d worn when they first met, at a rally against the Public Place Act back in college) and his hair is curled with moisture from a recent shower.

Charles leans against the door frame for a moment. Sometimes (every day) he just can’t help but stop and admire the long lines of Erik’s body; the way his shoulder blades strain against the cotton fabric of his shirt as he shifts his stance, the jeans hanging low on his narrow hips, the shadows of his eye lashes against his (always and still too sharp) cheekbones. People (his mother, mostly) have told him that Erik doesn't look like an omega should (“I’m just saying, he looks so gaunt and sharp, dear – no softness at all. You could have done so much better. Do you even feed him properly?”) but Charles couldn't care less.

Erik’s mind is the most comfortable place Charles has ever been in and at the end of the day, that is all that matters.

“Hi, darling.”

Charles goes up to him, cupping his hand around the back of Erik’s neck, thumb rubbing idle circles on the topmost knob of his spine. Erik doesn't even flinch, so accustomed to the warmed metal of Charles’ wristwatch he could probably tell its location in his sleep.

“Hi,” he answers, bowing his head further, so that Charles doesn't have to stand on his tiptoes to press his nose behind his ear, inhaling his scent like glue. “Just going to finish this up.”

(A group of street preachers, that had been taking advantage of the crowds and the attention, had been claiming that the recession was all because of the ventures in the Mutant Specialized Health Care program. Erik had lit up like a match.)

“What are we having?” Charles steps away from his omega’s warmth (letting his fingers linger a bit at the small of his back) before he sits down by the rickety kitchen table.

“Lasagna.”

It’s involuntarily, but the moan escapes him nonetheless. “I love you.”

(Erik had been boiling with white-hot rage so scorching Charles had been forced to call for Logan to hold him back, lest he’d burn himself on the flames.)

Erik sends him a toothy grin over his shoulder before he goes back to the washing up. The music from the scratchy radio is interrupted by a commercial and Charles slips a tendril of his awareness into Erik’s mind as he browses through the newspaper on the table. As the rain patters against the window, he lets the feeling of home, warmth and comfort lull him into a sense of calm.

They do say third time’s a charm, after all.

Soon enough, Erik puts the pans on the rack to dry, and after the usual evening conversation (“You seem tense – work taking its toll on you?” “No, it’s fine – just midterms coming up. You?” “New case – discrimination in the workplace. Easy one, first glance.” “Early night in on Friday then?” “Can’t see why not”) they eat in comfortable silence.

Or, Erik does at least.

Even if he’s sponging off of Erik’s quiet satisfaction, Charles is fidgeting in his seat, palms clammy as he picks a bit at the objectively (and subjectively) delicious dinner before him.

All because of the box in his front pocket.

(The humans had only ended up with bruised egos; Erik with a split lip and a clothesline bruise from Logan’s death grip. Surprisingly, nothing else had come of it: no pressed charges, no nothing. Then again, Erik was one of a kind – dangerous and mesmerizing like few others’ were. Scaring people to silence with his face alone wasn't a challenge.)

Charles had asked to have the box laced with an inhibitor band to surprise Erik, but he’s starting to regret that decision now. He’s almost worked up the courage twice before – taken an admittedly grumpy Erik out to dinner at two different fancy restaurants, before realizing that Erik wouldn't care for that at all, that it was all just for Charles’ own comfort, really.

Hence the quiet night in.

(Two months after the rally, Charles had literally ran into Erik at the coffee shop on campus. He’d spilled his tea all over Erik’s chest, and even if it was just simmering underneath the surface of usual annoyance, that white-hot rage wasn't something you forgot about in the first place.)

Now, Erik’s mind is a calm ocean of everyday worries ( _are there any laundry times left this week, does the prescription run out this week or next, will I have time for a run tomorrow morning_ ) and something in that, and how the collar of Erik’s shirt has started to fray from too many rounds in the washing machine, makes Charles decide that he better approach this directly.

No getting down on one knee, no rehearsed monologues, no fancy displays of the ring, no nothing.

Just them.

(Charles had apologized until his words ran out, pressing napkins to Erik’s chest. Erik had stiffened, taken aback by Charles undoubtedly quite pathetic appearance - home made scarf and tweed jacket with elbow patches. And then Charles always talked his jitters out, so he’d rambled and rambled, on and on, until Erik had asked what his mutation was.)

Charles swallows.

“Erik.”

(It wasn't something he readily admitted usually, but then and there, he did. And Erik had halted for a moment, his mind whirring, but then he’d said mutants should look out for each other.  _Especially ones as pretty as you_ , he’d murmured in his mind, and from there, the step to a date hadn't been far.) 

 “Mm?” Erik answers through a mouthful.

“Will you marry me?”

(Erik had been wary around Charles at first, despite being the one to make the first move. Charles was an alpha after all, and Erik was of the notion that alphas  _always_  had ulterior motives. It had taken three months of coffee dates, three times a week until his level of suspicion was low enough for Charles to kiss him.)

Charles sees Erik choke before he’s even finished the sentence. Eyes widening, he puts down his fork, slowly and still ladled with half a bite of pasta. The two vertical lines on his forehead steadily grow deeper.

“We don’t have to do it, I just thought that we've been going out for quite a few years now, seven actually – has it been that long? – and it’d be nice, I love coming here, being with you every day and we’re monogamous as it is, but we don’t have to is what –”

Erik’s hands drop from the table and he’s staring at Charles, his handsome face all lines and sharpness, but his eyes are not set. They’re unreadable and now his eyebrows are furrowing and the telltale frown on his forehead shows up and this is so not good. Charles should probably stop talking; he can feel himself rambling, but somehow the words just won’t stop coming, his heart won’t stop hammering. And as always when he's like this, Erik's mind becomes unreadable like a mirror. 

 “– I’m saying, and now it might seem as if I’m pressuring you, but I’m really not. It’d just be nice to have you – and for you to really be – my fiance, because I hope you feel the same, but if you –”

“Charles.”

“– and I just really want to  _be_  with you, it doesn't mean we have to get married now or ever if you don’t want to, although it’d be marvelous if you would –”

“ _Charles_.”

Charles stops.

(They’d slept together the first time in Erik’s drafty apartment, winter around the corner. They’d crawled under the blankets, kissed for hours until Charles had snaked down Erik’s body, nudging his lips against the warm, toasty skin of his stomach, traveling lower as he asked, voiceless,  _is this alright may I may I may I?_ )

Even with his arms crossed over his chest and one hand covering his mouth, Erik doesn't look too angry, though the lines linger on his forehead; eyes not as wide anymore, but the shock and confusion still there. His mind is so cloudy, whirring, that you can’t see a thing in the shadows, and Charles wants to curl up into something small. It makes him want to up and leave, to erase this whole thing and never approach it ever again.  

But he stays put, and in the next moment, Erik says,

“You do realize what you’re asking right now?”

(Erik had looked down at him then, shuddering, before slowly nodding –  _yes yes yes go ahead let’s try it_. It had been awkward – his knees making contact with Charles’ head more than once when Erik’s inner thigh had decided it had had enough of the acrobatics –  but they’d laughed and as the heating went out they’d curled up together; Charles with his nose buried in Erik’s slightly damp hair)

Furrowing his brow, Charles thinks for a moment. “I’m asking if you want to continue just like we have been, with the additional promise of a possible marriage in the future?” he then says, phrasing careful as he studies the shadows in Erik’s face in the light from the lamp.

A long exhale is the only answer he gets. The rain patters against the windowsill outside, providing nowhere to hide when the silence gets too much,

“You've actually forgotten?” Erik says. Charles’ pulse picks up, ticks at the side of his throat like a panicked metronome.

 “Forgotten what?”

“You really mean – for fuck’s sake, we have to register this!”

He says it with such force that Charles can’t help but wonder if he’s fucked up for good now. “That’s true, but it’ll just be a registered partnership. We can just leave it at that, if you want.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Erik drags his hands over his face, “ _Under the law, an omega that has a registered alpha connected to their name cannot benefit of the prescription sponsored by the government._ Christ, Charles, it’s seventh grade stuff.”

(Once, almost three years ago, Charles had spilled Erik’s pills all over the bathroom floor. It was the only time since they’d gotten together that the rage – this time sprung out of unadulterated panic – had returned with full force.)

 “Oh.”

In the sink, a pan slides down with a clang.

“Yes,  _oh_. I don’t have the money to pay for them – it costs a fucking fortune. Ready to take a week off for sex vacation?”

Had Erik been anyone besides himself, the sentence might have been playful. A flirty joke, even.

Now, Erik is Erik (and Charles wouldn't have it any other way) so despite being neutral on his lips, the line is self-deprecating and so  _scared_  in his mind, it makes Charles’ heart clench. He knows, after one too many conversations ending with a quick change of subject or a passive-aggressive outburst, that Erik’s relationship with his heats isn't simple.

(Charles had asked then, as they picked the pills, one by one, off of the tiles. Erik's shoulders had locked, and in that grey area between surface and private thoughts, a flickering of dread had blossomed; lashed out and connected with the ever-present need for control for a moment before dying out. It had been so quick that Charles hadn't been able to shut it out, but when Erik's eyes, laden with something Charles didn't want to touch, had landed on him, he'd known it was time to leave Erik alone.)

 “I’d be ready to do that for you, and you know I wouldn't mind, but it’s your choice” Charles says, voice low. Erik leans his elbows on the table, and his shoulders slump.

“I know. But you’re proposing to me, Charles,” he whispers, voice exhausted as he gestures vaguely between them, shaking his head, “do you  _want_  me to say no?”

“No, of course not! But I know it’s not something that you –” Charles starts, but he’s interrupted almost immediately.

“And I’m saying yes to all of that, okay? Just…”

“Really? You really want to marry me? You’re stuck with me for the rest of your life, you know” he says, lips twitching with a smile as the reality of what Erik has just said hits him. (Charles wishes he could help himself, but sometimes, gut instinct is the best way to go)

Erik raises an eyebrow at his attempt to lighten the mood, even if his mind is still a whirl of emotions. The fear is there and so is the uncertainty (and Charles knows that it might never leave) but there’s also something like awe, fondness and then… gratitude.

First just a hint, it’s soon a soft heat, spreading through Erik’s mind and lighting it up from within, almost like a campfire.

 “Yes, really.”

Reaching over, Charles then takes Erik’s hand, holding it tight. “Thank you.”

Erik grimaces his way to a smile, but the light he’s projecting doesn't diminish. On the window, two drops race each other down the glass.

“I really hate heats, though” he then says, scratching his neck. 

Charles opens his mouth, but Erik slams his hand over it before he can even utter a sound.

“You are  _not_ helping me financially, and if you so much as  _think_ I hate it because I've spent all of them alone, you’re sleeping on the couch.”

“I wasn't going to say that,” Charles says between the space of his fingers. Well, not the last part at least.

“Yeah, my ass.”

“… is really nice.”

Erik groans, but his shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. “What have I done? You’re horrible.”

Unable to speak through the bursts of his own giggles, Charles reaches out with his mind, stroking over the familiar angles now glowing with warmth,  _regretting it yet?_

Standing up, Erik comes around the table. With his hands on the back of Charles' chair, caging him, he then leans in, his warm breath causing Charles' lips to tingle with anticipation. He closes his eyes just as Erik says, fondly, 

 “Yes. So much.”  _As if I could._

The kiss, when it happens, feels like their first.


End file.
